


never wanting anything more

by ahtohallan_calling



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Teacher Anna, lots of pining AND pines, woodsman kristoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22051654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahtohallan_calling/pseuds/ahtohallan_calling
Summary: “You’re full of surprises, Kristoff.”He is not; he is a man who lives alone in the woods because he does not know how to be anything else, and she is a silverbright comet scorching her way through his life and scattering shards of colors he didn’t know existed.(an AU [very] loosely based on Netflix's Klaus)
Relationships: Anna/Kristoff (Disney)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 144
Collections: oh YES





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be part of santa kristoff week but i have a problem called 'writing everything i think of' and so i'm behind

There is a knock on the door.

There has never been a knock before.

He opens it. There is a woman there who is not at all dressed for the weather. “Hi,” she says, breathless. “I got a little lost, and I saw the smoke from your cabin coming over the trees, so I figured I had better come and ask for help, so I’m here now, asking you, if that’s alright because you see I’m terribly lost and don’t know how to get back to the village.”

He blinks. Hers is the first human voice he has heard in a long while. 

“Or-- or I can go back--”

“No,” he says, his voice rough from disuse. 

Her eyes widen. “No, I can’t go back?”

“ _ No _ , not that.”

“Then what did you--”

“I meant no, I can help you. Take the road to the east and turn south at the pond.”

“Right, so east is-- that one?”

She points due north. Perhaps he shouldn’t have answered the door. He looks her over; she is clearly not from Smeerensburg. Her clothes are of fine make, her collar edged with white lace; her hair, too, is worn long and loose, only two coppery braids wound in it. The people here do not have time to worry about looking pretty and so their hair stays up. 

The first snowstorms will come tonight; if he does not help her, she just might freeze. And so he steps outside, gesturing in the right direction. “This way is east. Opposite the sunset.”

“Oh, I knew that! Silly me,” she says with a little laugh that sounds like summer, smacking herself in the forehead. “Thanks very much.”

He inclines his head. “Safe travels.”

She sets off, and he heads back inside. He smiles to himself that night as he prepares his dinner, even when his mouth starts to ache, unused to the exercise. He may be a forgotten creature of simplicity and solitude, but even he can recognize a beautiful thing.

* * *

The knock comes again three days later. Two quick taps, followed by a shuffling of skirts, the faint creak of a board under a heeled boot. Even if she hadn’t been his only visitor he would have known it was her.

She beams at him as soon as the door swings open. “Hi!”

“Are you lost again?”

“No, I know how to find my way home now, thanks to you! Which is why I’m here.”

She holds up a little paper box. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain. Her cheeks were already pink from the cold, but now they are bright red under her freckles. “They’re thank you cookies.”

“Why would you do that?”

She bites her lip. “Well, you were so kind the other day, so I just thought...I’m sorry if I--”

“No,” he says quickly. “Forgive me. I-- don’t get many visitors. Or cookies.”

“If you don’t like them-- or me-- I can just--”

He steps back, pulling the door all the way open even though it’s letting in the cold, and gestures towards the table and two chairs, one of which is far more worn than the other. She steps in, biting her lip again, and sits down. It occurs to him that people tell stories about men who live in cabins in the woods, and he hopes she doesn’t believe them. Perhaps it will help, though, if he-- 

“Do you want tea?” he asks, and she nods. 

He’s hoping that fiddling with the kettle with his back turned to her will give him a chance to collect his thoughts, but then her voice comes, lovely and lilting and full of curiosity. “What are those?”

He glances; she’s pointing at the mantel. “Carvings.”

“Well-- of what?”

“Wood.”

She lets out a little frustrated huff. He wants to laugh, but he seems to have forgotten how. “Not what they’re  _ made _ out of, what are they supposed to  _ be _ ?”

“You can go and look. You won’t break them.”

She does, making soft noises of wonder as she turns the figurines over between her little thin fingers, handling each one with care. “Are these all animals from the forest around here?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re the one who made them?”

“Yes.”

She’s holding his favorite one, a little rabbit with its ears tucked back. She strokes its head with a dainty index finger, as tenderly as if it were full of warmth and breath and life. He had been amused by her; now he trusts her. She sees him looking and gives him a bright smile. “They’re beautiful. How do you make them so lifelike?”

He shrugs, pouring her tea into a mug, the nice one without any chips. “I just watch the animals and carve what I see.”

She sets the rabbit back on the mantel, lining it up with care, before coming over to accept the mug. “They’re cinnamon sugar, by the way.”

“What?”

“The cookies. That’s the best kind I can make-- well, the only kind, really. Do you want one?”

He nods, and she hands him one, looking nervous as he takes a bite. “It’s good,” he reassures her, and she lets out a little sigh. In fact, it is sort of dry and not quite sweet enough, but he takes another bite anyway. “Aren’t you having one?”

“They’re your cookies.”

“To do with as I wish?”

She nods, and he gives her a quick flash of a smile. “Then I wish you would eat one.”

Her face brightens, too, and he wonders if it is because of him or because of the treat. She takes a bite and pulls a face. “These aren’t good at all.”

“I like them anyway.”

She tilts her head a little, confused, and he shrugs. “No one has brought me cookies, thank-you or otherwise, before. So these are the best I’ve ever had.”

“Well, that’s awfully sad, isn’t it?”

She’s trying to be funny, but the fact is that is sort of sad, really, and they both realize it at the same time and look away from one another. He takes a sip of tea and wonders if she minds that he didn’t offer her any sugar. He’s about to ask when she clears her throat.

“So-- I’m Anna, by the way.”

“Anna,” he repeats, the name soft and warm like honey on his tongue, and a smile blooms on her face.

“And you are…?”

For one absurd moment he almost says  _ I don’t have one _ , but then he remembers-- “Kristoff.”

“Nice to meet you, Kristoff,” and this time when he smiles he doesn’t stop.

* * *

The next time he hears the knock, he’s not in the house; he’s halfway across the yard with a bucket of hay. She doesn’t see him and turns to go. For a moment he just watches, curious about why her shoulders are suddenly drooping, but suddenly sense returns to him, and he calls to her. “Anna!”

She spins on her heel, giving him a smile that goes all the way to her eyes. They are very blue; he has noticed them before, but today he notices a little extra. “Kristoff! I was worried you weren’t here.”

“I’m always here. I was just feeding the reindeer.”

Her eyes go wide. “Can I see?”

He nods, and she darts across the yard to him like a sparrow flickering from place to place and lands right in front of him, bouncing on the balls of her feet. He offers her a not-so-rare-anymore smile and leads her over to the stable. She gasps when she sees them, takes in their shaggy coats and velvety noses and branching antlers, and stops in front of Sven, who regards her curiously. 

“Can I pet them?”

Out of habit, he answers in the reindeer’s voice, the one he made up years ago when he first realized how vast alone could be. “Sure you can, go ahead.”

He freezes for a moment, feeling his cheeks turn scarlet, and she looks up at him, and this close he could count her freckles and the stars in her eyes. “You’re full of surprises, Kristoff.”

He is not; he is a man who lives alone in the woods because he does not know how to be anything else, and she is a silverbright comet scorching her way through his life and scattering shards of colors he didn’t know existed.

He ducks his head, putting his hand on Sven’s neck, the place that always needs scratching. “Here-- this is his favorite spot.”

Her hand joins his, petting the reindeer with the utmost gentleness, and her fingers brush against his but neither of them pulls away. 

After a minute Sven makes a happy huffing noise, and she jumps back, startled. He cannot help but laugh, the sound creaking out of him like a trodden floorboard, but she smiles at him anyway. “So-- I came to ask for your help again, Kristoff. If that’s okay.”

He likes that she keeps saying his name, likes the way her lips purse against the end of it. “What do you need?”

She digs in her satchel, pulls out a penknife and a little block of pine. “Will you teach me to carve the animals the way you do?”

He does not know if it is a skill that can be taught, but he nods anyway and starts walking, leading her back to his cabin. “What for?”

“My children.”

He nearly trips over the invisible brick she has dropped. “Oh-- so you’re a--”

“Not mine, really,” she explains quickly, as if she knows the reason he stumbled. “I’m a schoolteacher down in the village.”

“They still  _ have _ one in Smeerensburg?”

She wrinkles her nose as he holds the door open for her. “I don’t think they want to. The adults, at least, not very fond of learning about the outside, especially not from an actual outsider. But the children-- especially the little ones-- they want to learn. And it’s Christmas coming up, and some of the very small ones...well.” She peeks up at him through a fringe of tawny lashes. “I’ve seen the shoes they’re having to wear in this weather, and...I don’t know that there’ll be anything under the tree.”

He nods and pulls out a chair for her before going for his own knife and a block of wood from the chest in the corner. “We can fix that.”

* * *

Her hands, so careful with Sven, are surprisingly clumsy and impatient with the wood, and so sometimes her bears have pointy noses or the deer have squared-off backsides, but she is proud of her work and so is he, and he knows that the children she so worries over will treasure them just the same as any toy from the shops of the southern cities because they are made with love and that is a thing that is all too precious in this cold world of theirs. He works alongside her, making tiny boxes carved from a single block. She marvels over them, begging to know his secret for making them open without a hinge. “Magic,” he says, and she laughs and nudges her elbow against his.

After a couple of weeks of her near-daily visits, they are running low on supplies, and so he takes her out into the forest, but not until he has draped his warmest scarf around her neck and tucked her hands into a pair of mittens. They are so big they slide off when she drops her hands again, and so he helps her pull them on once more, and this time he ties little pieces of twine around her wrists to keep them in place.

“Too tight?”

Her eyes are soft as she looks up at him. “No, they’re perfect.”

“Good. This wind off the lake will freeze you solid in a half-hour if you’re not careful. Can’t have that, can we?”

It’s a bit of a walk to the clearing where the linden trees grow; pines surround the cabin but the wood isn’t as strong, won’t hold up as well against the unrelenting force of little hands. Despite his careful wrapping, she still shivers a little; her coat isn’t suited for this weather. He crooks an elbow, offering it to her, and she tucks her mittened hand there gladly, drawing close to his side. 

When they reach the clearing, she helps him pick a tree that looks “like it won’t mind helping,” in her words. She has made a good choice; it’s old but not so old the wood will be difficult to work with, just broad enough that it will provide plenty of wood for carving and for the fire but not so heavy that he won’t be able to drag it back with them. He instructs her to sit on a stump and shucks his coat, draping it over her shoulders. She tries to protest, but he shakes his head. “I’ll warm up fast doing this,” he reassures her. 

And he does, sweat prickling at his forehead as he makes one swing after another, the axe biting through the trunk with practiced ease. He has been very careful to make sure that when it falls it is far from where she sits, but still he glances nervously over his shoulder before making the final blow.

She offers to help him drag it back, but he waves her off. Her eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them as they walk. “How can you move that by yourself?” she asks, her voice hushed even though no one else is around to hear.

He shrugs. “It needs moving, so I move it. That’s what I’ve always done.”

She whistles, the sound low and admiring, and even though she’s still wearing his coat he feels warm all over. 

They pass a pond on the way back, and he makes the mistake of glancing at it, catching a glimpse of their reflection and feeling a hot bubble of shame well up and burst in his gut. Even bundled in layers of wool and fur she is delicate, graceful, cornflower eyes and crystalline smile, and he resembles the mountains he has lived among his whole life, rough edges and ragged hair and a smear of dirt on his jaw.

He doesn’t talk the rest of the way back, just nods when she goes inside and offers to make tea while he chops off a few pieces from the trunk for her to carve. He takes the pieces in and offers them to her; in exchange, she holds up a steaming mug. He savors it, the warmth of the drink and her company, relishing every last drop because it  _ is _ the last.

When the cup is empty, he meets her gaze. “That should be enough to get you through. Won’t need to come back up here.”

She frowns. “But I need help figuring out the ears, still.”

“You’re doing well on your own. No need to bother coming back.”

He takes their mugs, turns his back on her to wash them, hears her quietly hang up his coat and scarf, then feels her come up behind him. “I need help with the mittens.”

He turns, and she holds up her hands. He pulls the knots loose and frees her hands, letting his thumb trace over the inside of her wrist for just a moment, memorizing the smooth silk of her skin. She shivers beneath the touch, and he pulls away, knowing the shudder must have been one of disgust.

“Hurry back,” he says gruffly, turning away again. “Before dark.”

Her booted feet walk slower than usual across the wooden floor; he hears the door creak and start to close, but then she pauses. 

“Goodbye, Kristoff.”

His chest aches. “Goodbye, Anna.”


	2. Chapter 2

A week goes by, then two. December has settled over the woods like a shawl on shivering shoulders, draping the naked branches with a fine lace of frost. The deep snows come now, the ones that blanket the earth, covering over the detritus of autumn like a mother tucking a child into bed, soft and slow and sweetened by the promise of waking. 

The silence of it all is broken one afternoon by a knock he has heard in his dreams. He opens the door, expecting it to have been another trick of the wind, but to his surprise she is there, and she is not alone. 

“I don’t know what she’s saying,” Anna explains, bouncing the child in her arms. “She saw me working on the porch, and she just kept pointing at the carvings. I thought maybe...maybe it would help if I brought her here so she could see your tools and the ones you have made so you could figure out what she wants, because she keeps coming up to me and I—“

She’s still rambling, but his focus has shifted. The child in her arms wears her hair loose, blonde curls peeking out from a blue and red hat that perfectly matches her tiny woolen dress. 

“I can help,” he says, cutting her off, and opens the door. 

Anna comes in and sets the child down. Kristoff sits in his chair so he doesn’t tower over her so; he knows his size can frighten such little creatures. But she reaches up towards him, and on instinct, he picks her up and settles her on his knee. She leans back against his chest and smiles up at him, unfettered by reticence. _You’re the toymaker?_ she chirps.

_Yes. How can I help, little one?_

The words come to him as easily as if he has never used another tongue, and the child’s face lights up. _You are one of us!_

_No. But I know your ways._

She is undeterred, her tone reproachful. _You must not know them well. We like toys, too_.

He tousles her hair, the blonde curls like cornsilk. _All children like toys, don’t they?_

_Of course. But we don’t all have them, and we have not been asked what kind we would wish for._

Her little face is solemn now, and so is his as he nods. _I can help with that. What would you like?_

_Oggi wants a deer. Heike says a dog would be nice, and Ruhte--_

He holds up a hand, stopping her. “Anna?”

She startles; she has been lost in trying to follow their conversation without understanding a single word. “What is it?”

“Do you have paper? And pen?”

She does, and after he scratches down the first two names and requests, he gestures for the little girl to go on. The paper is not quite half full of names, and he might have remembered without it, but he needs to make sure this is right. He goes through the list with the child, checking over it twice, and she nods authoritatively. _Thank you, toymaker_ , she says, patting his shoulder and beginning to climb down.

_Wait, little one. And what would you like?_

It takes her a long moment to decide; she had not paused even a moment in her quest to think of her own little childish wants. He will take extra care with her carving.

 _A rabbit,_ she says at last. 

_Why?_

_They are so sweet but so afraid. I want to hold one and know I am causing no harm._

He picks her up, goes to the mantel, shows her the rabbit there. She claps in delight, and he offers it to her. She cradles it between tiny palms, marveling at it, stroking its ears. 

_It’s yours_ , he says, and she throws her arms around his neck, the carving clasped tight in her hand.

When he turns back to Anna, her mouth is slightly agape. There are a thousand questions in her eyes, but she begins with, “Where did you learn that language?”

He doesn’t answer, just goes to the stove and puts the kettle on with the hand that is not supporting a tiny bundle now perched on his hip. 

“Where did you learn to make the toys?”

She is standing beside him now, determined to glean answers he’s not yet ready to give. “Why were you so quick to help me, Kristoff?”

At the sound of his name in her mouth like he has so hungered to hear, his resolve almost breaks. “It’s not a story for children to hear.”

“But she doesn’t speak our language.”

“She will understand.”

She opens her mouth to keep arguing, but he shakes his head. “Later, Anna,” he says, and although she is disappointed he sees a little flicker of pleasant surprise dart across her features.

He sets the child down so he can pour the tea. She darts over to Anna, showing off her new treasure. Anna coos over the rabbit, strokes its little wooden head the same way she did on that first day. They chatter over steaming mugs; he translates between them until they figure out a language of their own, all hand-waving and laughter, and then he sits back and watches with a growing smile.

When the little girl starts to yawn, he clears the table while Anna helps her bundle up. “Here,” he says, kneeling down to tighten her scarf himself, just to be sure. The girl’s green eyes shine with a new light as she tugs at his sleeve. _Toymaker, may I come again?_

_Yes. Whenever you wish._

_Will you visit my home, too?_

He hesitates, but her eyes are so hopeful. _Well, of course. I have to bring the toys._

She yawns again, and Anna scoops her up. “Thank you, Kristoff,” she says softly, and he knows she’s speaking of more than the toys. He nods, and she turns to go, but there is something that still needs to be said, cobwebs between them that must be swept away.

“Wait.”

She looks back over her shoulder, and he swallows his fear. “I did not mean to make you feel unwelcome. It’s only…”

He doesn’t know what he intends to say, but she understands anyway, and comes back over to him, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek, unbothered by the roughness of his unshaven jaw against her rosy mouth; he flushes even before she pulls away. “Good night, Kristoff.”

“Good night, Anna.”

* * *

He had seen the light in her eyes when she last said good night, but it’s still an unexpected wonder when she’s on his porch the night before the holiday. She doesn’t have to knock this time; since he last saw her he has spent an extraordinary amount of time staring out the window, and the moment he sees the violet flicker of Anna’s cape through the trees he flings the door open.

Even in the fading glow of late afternoon, her smile shines so brightly he can see it across the yard. She scurries to him, nearly leaping up the porch steps, and for a moment it seems she will throw herself into his arms, but she stops just short of it, rocking back almost imperceptibly on her heels.

“I need your help,” she says, just barely breathless.

“We don’t have time for more carvings, I’m--”

“No, no, that’s not it. The problem is we have so _many_...well. I wanted it to be a surprise for the children to wake up to Christmas morning, but I’m afraid that since between the two of us we made enough for every child in town I won’t be able to do it all on my own in one night, especially on foot, and so I was wondering…”

She peeks up at him, teetering on the edge of outright asking. She is unsure around him still after his seeming rejection, and he cannot blame her. This is the way she should have been all along, even if he wishes it could be otherwise. “I have some of my own to deliver tonight as well. Let me hitch Sven to the sleigh.”

This time she does throw her arms around him, her chin tucking over his shoulder so perfectly it’s as if he has been carved especially for her. He puts his hands on her back, careful, worried that if he holds her too close she will startle and fly away. 

“Look in the chest over by the bed,” he instructs her, and she pulls back, looking up at him inquisitively. “It will snow again tonight, and I’ll not have you freeze. Your cloak is too thin, but I have....a spare.”

He shuffles through the snow to the stable, hitches Sven to the sleigh and leads him over to the door just as Anna is emerging, her eyes wide and wondering as she runs her hand over the red and blue cloak in her hands. “Where did you get this?”

“It was my mother’s.”

She unfolds it with care, holding it up to the fading light to examine it for just a moment before settling it on her shoulders. “It looks like Sámi clothing.”

“Because it is.”

He slides down from the sleigh and offers her a hand. She takes it gladly, but only after giving Sven a quick scratch on his neck; she remembers the spot he likes. “So are you--”

“No fair,” he says, helping her settle into the seat, tucking a blanket over her legs. She tilts her head in confusion, and he flashes a smile, glad he has a reason to do so again. “Let’s make it a fair exchange. Question for a question.”

“Fine,” she proclaims, wiggling back in her seat as they set off. “I’m an open book.”

“Why are you in Smeerensburg?”

She looks away from him; not such an open book after all, but they have time and he has patience, and so he waits quietly, giving her time to decide whether getting another answer from him is worth giving one of her own. 

“I wished to make something of myself, _by_ myself. Not depending on my father’s legacy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Who is--?”

She cuts him off, tutting. “You know the rules. A question for a question, _dahkki_.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Where did you learn that?”

“It’s what Márgu kept calling you. What does it mean?”

“Who?”

“The little girl.”

He smiles. “It means maker.”

“ _Dahkki_ ,” she says again, testing it, and his smile broadens. He likes this, hearing the familiar words in her mouth. 

She is smiling, too. “You asked me two questions then, and I asked only one. So now I have two more.”

“Mine didn’t count, did they?”

“And there was another! Three for me.”

She taps her chin, pondering where to begin, and he returns his gaze to the road, making sure the path is clear as far as he can see before the light fades away completely. It has been many months since he took the eastern road himself. Over the years he has found ways to become self-sufficient, relying only on the forest and its gifts for what he needs to survive. He last came to the city only because his shovel cracked against the too-hard earth of early spring, and he has not yet learned the ways of working metal.

He feels a little nudge against his arm. “If you are Sámi, then why do you live alone, so far away?”

“I’m not.”

“That’s hardly an answer. It doesn’t count.”

She is absolutely impossible, and he revels in it, the stubborn edge in her tone, her crossed arms and furrowed brow; she is afraid of nothing even in a world where nothing can be trusted.

 _No_ , he reminds himself, _you can trust her_.

And so he does. “My mother was, not me. My father was from the village. He left one day and never returned.”  
“And your mother?”

“I lost her when I was eight.”

Beside him, Anna moves a little closer, leaning against his shoulder just a bit. “We lost my mother three years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for you, too.” She heaves a sigh and peers up at him. “What a rotten world, huh?”

“Not so rotten,” he says, surprising himself-- and Anna, too, by the way she blinks up at him, lips slightly parted before curving into a smile. She stays that way for a moment before remembering herself and looking away, though her cheeks are stained a lovely shade of pink.

“You answered a different question than the one I asked. Why do you live alone, not with your mother’s people?”

“I did for a time, but they moved on, and I did not. The tribe here now is not the same; there are a great many of them scattered throughout the north.”

“Why did you not go with them?”

It is hard to explain to one who has not lived it, who has not walked between worlds, not belonging to either. “It...did not feel right.”

It is a poor answer, but she accepts it all the same. “It’s your turn now. Make it a good one, we’re nearly there.”

He wants answers about her family, about why she became a teacher, about why she chose Smeerensburg of all places. Instead, he asks the question that he needs to.

“Why did you keep coming back?”

She chooses her words carefully, unusual for her. “Because...you let me.”

They have reached the outskirts of town; he draws Sven to a halt but makes no move to step down from the sleigh. Instead, he simply looks at her, drinking in the sight of her eyes illuminated by the light of the moon. There is no need for her to explain further; he knows what it is to feel the shudder of a slamming door, to hear the muttered _not-you-agains_ , to be utterly alone no matter how many people you surround yourself with, and it breaks his heart that such a lovely creature as this has somehow learned the meaning of true loneliness.

She stares back at him, as if she is waiting for him to come to a conclusion, but he has long since done so. He will let her come to his home, his arms, his heart, let her do as she wills with all three of them. But there will be time to think on these things later; for now, they have an important errand to run.

Anna knows each house, each child inside. “Here are Asbjorn and Agot, the twins; the birds are theirs,” and “The fox here, for my Oskar,” and “The bear for little Bjorn, his namesake.”

They set their gifts on doorsteps and windowsills, perching them wherever they will be safest from the snow. It’s quick work with four hands and Anna’s perfect knowledge of each and every child in her care. He had known already that she was kind; now he wishes there was a better word for it, for the way she has memorized each tiny facet of the children’s lives so that she can better devote herself to caring for them in every way she can. His chest aches again, that strange phantom feeling he felt that day he’d told her goodbye, but somehow this time _pain_ doesn’t seem quite the right word.

They finish depositing the treasures from her bag, but he still has a neat row of tiny boxes lined up in the back of the sled. “Just one stop,” he explains, turning the wagon north, towards the row of dwellings built of leather and branches.

The people of Smeerensburg are not friendly to each other or to outsiders, but he is both and neither, and somehow that is worst of all. These other people, the ones who live outside the village in their _goahti_ , might be kinder if he ever wished to visit them, but their quick smiles and clever hands remind him of what he lost long ago, and so he has never come.

Until now, of course, but they are under the cover of night, the only light the eerie glimmer of the half-formed moon and its coterie of stars. They are a different tribe than the one who stayed here so many years ago, and so they will not know of him, but still, he cannot bring himself to be among them in the light of day. Anna keeps her questions in her eyes and helps him to carry the little stacks of boxes, balancing them carefully in her gloved hands.

They slip between the _goahti_ and find a pine tree, a good strong one with spreading branches that is more or less in the center of their stopping-place, and they stack his cargo there, each tiny animal tucked carefully into one of his boxes. The people will recognize their make, but that’s alright so long as they do not know the maker. 

He finished them all just in time; tomorrow the children here and in the village will all wake and find their small treasures, a menagerie of oak and linden to brighten the frigid monotony of existence for at least one shining moment. A satisfied smile crosses his face as he turns again towards the sleigh; it is one thing to do work to survive, but to use one’s hands to make something purely to bring joy to another-- now that is a treasure far better than what one might find under a tree.

As they cross back over the borders of the town, she asks him to stop the wagon in front of a tiny cottage with shutters hanging on for dear life. “Who lives here?” he asks, worried because their sack of gifts is empty.

“Me,” she says, biting her lip for fear of what he might say next.

He glances up; the first rosy fingers of dawn are scraping over the horizon. Had the night really passed so quickly? He looks back at her. “Off to bed with you, then,” he says, climbing down to help her out one last time.

“It’s Christmas Day.”

He nods, unsure of where she is going. 

“No one should spend it alone.”

He still waits, and she huffs out an impatient sigh.

“Come in, Kristoff. I haven’t got gifts or a tree, but there’s coffee and I can make you cookies-- or, well-- better not, actually, now that I think of it.”

He has not shared a holiday with another living soul since he was a child, has told himself he does not wish to, but she, at least, should not have to spend the day alone, and so he follows her indoors. It’s smaller even than his cabin, but he can tell she keeps her home with care. “Let me put the coffee on,” she says with a yawn, “you make yourself at home.”

Her furniture looks old enough that he worries it will snap beneath his bulk. He settles gingerly in a winged armchair that seems to be more patch than anything else, watching with a faint smile as she bustles around the kitchen, humming to herself as the scent of rich, dark coffee fills the air.

“I haven’t got any cream or sugar,” she says over her shoulder. “Afraid they don’t pay schoolteachers very well in Smeerensburg.”

“That’s alright. Don’t care much for either.”

She brings him a cup, and he takes it gladly. She drags another chair over, closer to him, and balances her cup on her knees. “I believe it was my turn to ask another question.”

A laugh rolls out of him, easy like it has only ever been with her. “Of course.”

They chatter back and forth through the wee hours of the morning; he tells her how he learned to care for reindeer, she explains why she chose to teach. They talk more about their families, and when she admits to being the daughter of the man who runs the postal service for the whole country he tries and fails not to look taken aback.

“It wasn’t for me, though,” she says hastily. “Delivering letters, that I wouldn’t mind. But it’s the meetings and the paperwork that drive me mad.”

After an hour or so their sentences slow; they start tripping over their words, exhaustion sapping away their thoughts despite their second cups of coffee. Anna’s eyelids droop more and more with every blink; just as he is about to go for a blanket to drape over her shoulders so she can rest easier, they are startled by a scream.

It’s not a frightened noise, but if there had been any doubt it would have been cleared away by the peals of laughter that follow it. “A walrus!” a childish voice exclaims, only barely muffled by the thin walls. “Look, Mama, at his tusks!”

A grin blooms on Anna’s face, the twin to his own. They lean forward a little, peering out the nearest window at the house next door, where a second child has emerged, already clapping her hands with glee. “I saw them!” she squeals, lisping slightly through the gap left by two missing teeth. “On a sleigh! With reindeer!”

“My Silje,” Anna says with a laugh. “Always so observant. I made her an owl.”

“They are lucky to have you,” he says, and she flushes. “To have someone who works so hard to bring them such joy.”

She nods, a trace of sadness in her eyes. “What a shame it’s only one day a year.”

A shame for the children, and, as they both realize at the same time, for the both of them. What is left between them, now that there is no goal to work towards?

He regards her carefully, and she returns his gaze. His heart begins to pound a little faster, as if he has come a great distance very quickly, and in a way he has. “I suppose,” he says slowly, “that they all have birthdays, don’t they?”

“Oh, of course.”

“And I’m sure they’d not say no to other little toys. Perhaps we can learn to make something new.”

The stars in her eyes are shining brighter than he’s ever seen them. “There are their name days as well.”

“And Easter.”

“And midsummer.”

“And rainy days, when they’ll need something to occupy them indoors.”

“And-- and-- well, they’re children, really, they should play every day--”

With each sentence, they lean a little closer to each other, until their knees are nestled against each other’s. Her hand goes up, rests on his cheek, quivering just a little, and he puts his own hand there too, covering it. She smiles and leans forward and his heart stutters in his chest as her lips press against his. His own mouth is clumsy against hers, overeager as he tries to find where to place lips and teeth and tongue, but she is unbothered by his ineptitude; if anything she matches his enthusiasm all the more, her hands sliding down to grasp his collar, tugging him closer, slanting her mouth over his with a fevered gasp.

When at last they break apart, her lips are swollen, her chin reddened by the scratch of his stubble against her delicate skin. He cups her jaw in his hand, and she leans into it, closing her eyes.

“Anna,” he whispers. “My Anna.”

Her hand comes up, slender fingers curling around his wrist. “Yours.”


	3. Chapter 3

They don’t see much of the sun now in the doldrums of midwinter, but there is a new warmth to his life all the same. He had grown resigned to the tyranny of silence, of a soundless existence broken only by the wind and birds, and then a knock grew into a crescendo of beautiful sound that fills his days and his heart with Anna and her easy laughs and absentminded humming and tender words. She has insisted on coming to visit him still as often as she can, and though he has no mind to tell her goodbye ever again, he insists that if she must come, she must be warm as she makes her way to the edge of the forest. 

“Kristoff…” she says, tears in her eyes on the day he holds out the carefully folded coat to her. “I can’t accept this. How much--”

“Not half as much as you are worth to me,” he replies firmly, and is rewarded with a warm smile as she slips the coat over her shoulders and a sweet kiss when he helps her get her arms through the heavy sleeves. 

“Now,” he adds, helping her with the buttons not because she needs it but because he’s always trying to find new ways to say  _ I love you _ , “now I will know you are warm both going and coming. And now I can show you the heart of the forest.”

She bounces on the balls of her feet, all curiosity and joy and silver starlight that by some miracle he can hold safe in the circle of his arms. “Will we be able to see the lights from there?”

“Oh, certainly. Much better than you can in town.”

“And after they fade?”

“Then it will be terribly late, and I suppose I’ll have to take you home and kiss you good night.”

She smiles, eyes bright as if he does not already do that every time she comes to visit. He has come to realize she likes to hear him say such things aloud, to be reminded that his affections won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. He has always been a man of few words; though he tries for her, it is still easier for him to express his adoration in quieter ways, in the brush of a kiss against her temple, in the twining of his fingers through hers, in the cups of tea he has waiting for her each afternoon. But still he speaks his love aloud whenever the right words come; he can tell that she treasures each reassurance up, every tiny promise adding to the larger pile, reminding her that she is wanted, that she is loved. He understands; he does the same thing each night as he lies awake, reliving in his mind’s eye each brush of her fingers over his, each contented little sigh, each sneaky kiss she presses against his jaw when she thinks he isn’t watching her. 

(But he’s always watching; he can never quite tear his eyes away for fear that she will disappear if he does.)

She tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walk into the shadowed depths of the forest; she has gloves now that she knitted herself to match the ones she gave him, so he knows she clings to him not for warmth’s sake but for affection’s. He leads her off the path and through untouched snow, keeping a close eye to make sure her boots never sink too deeply and fill with snow. Her focus is on keeping her balance on the slippery patches; he had at first assumed she was graceful in all things, but he has since learned that she is horrendously clumsy, a fact that brings him amusement and terror in equal measure. 

At last they reach a little clearing centered around a frozen-over pond just as the lights begin to undulate in the velvet-blue sky. A little gasp escapes her, her hand flying to her mouth, as she stares up at them. He watches her instead of the lights for a long moment, seeing the shades of emerald and turquoise reflected in her widened eyes.

“Oh, Kristoff,” she whispers, reverent. “ _ Oh _ .”

Eventually the lights begin to fade, and she begins to shiver against him, and so he squeezes her hand. “It’s late.”

She sighs, her eyes dreamy as she gazes up at him. “I wish I didn’t have to go back.”

He strokes a lock of fiery hair from her forehead, lets his hand rest against the peachskin softness of her cheek. “The lights are gone for now. Perhaps they’ll be back tomorrow.”

She leans into his touch. “It’s not just the lights I’ll miss.”

“You can stay,” he says, his voice somehow hoarse, “as long as you like. Always.”

She turns her face, kisses his palm, each finger. Now she is not the only one shivering. Once more she looks up at him, and he thinks the lights in the sky have nothing on the light in her eyes when she smiles at him like this.

“And what if I should wish to stay forever, and never again be parted from you?”

By the way her breath has suddenly sped up, the way she laces her fingers through his, he knows she means it, that if he tells her  _ stay _ she will remain at his side as long as life allows and, knowing how stubborn she can be, perhaps much longer.

“Well,” he says, and he swallows hard but tears start to leak from the corners of his eyes anyway. “Well, I think that’ll be just fine.”

She leans up on her toes, tugs him down to press her lips against his, and he goes gladly, breaking away between kisses to mutter, “I have no money-- no ring-- nothing to offer--”

“Neither have I,” she says, her lips all the sweeter as they curve into a smile, “nothing but my heart. Is that enough?”

“More-- so much more--” he says, and then she kisses him so fiercely it takes his breath away. 

* * *

In the heart of February, a last terrific blizzard comes, and it is the worst of all, as final gasps of tantrums usually are; it brings more ice than snow, lacquering the ground so smoothly that he nearly breaks a limb trying to make it from his front door to the stables. 

He knows it will delay her from coming but not stop her entirely, that she will do her best to find a way anyway and likely earn a bump on the head for her troubles. He has asked her before why she is so adamant about always coming to his cabin; she admitted at last one night when he held her by the fire that by coming here, she knew he would always walk her home, and thus she’d have a little extra time with him. 

“Then I would just stay later,” he protested teasingly, but there was something more melancholy lurking in her eyes.

“I just like coming to you,” she said softly, and he had a feeling that this little house in the town would always feel like loneliness to her, reminding her of the time when she was a stranger in a foreign land, even now when they are at least strangers together. 

But today, whether it pleases her or not, he will have to insist on going to her; surely with enough kisses, she will forgive him for it. 

He arrives just in time; she is trying to figure out the best way to wobble down her front steps when he pulls up in the wagon. “Your boots aren’t made for that,” he calls to her, then realizes he shouldn’t have said anything as now she is redoubling her efforts, trying to get to his side. 

He hurries over and catches her just before she tumbles down the stairs and slides halfway through the town. “You’re lucky I got here when I did,” he says, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, and she smirks.

“Having you catch me was all part of the master plan,” she says coyly, and knowing her, it very well might have been. 

She is still perched on the top step, meaning that for once she is near his height, a fact she takes full advantage of by pressing her mouth against his, letting her little tongue slip wickedly between his lips. For a moment he responds just as fiercely, then pulls away, hoping the sharp breeze will cool the fire in him. 

“My Anna, you’re a little minx, you know that?”

She waggles her eyebrows. “So I’ve been told. But here— we can get back to important things later. For now I’ve got a letter to post and would greatly appreciate it if a gentleman would be kind enough to escort me through the perils of the streets.”

He gives her an exaggerated bow, rising with a smirk, and offers his arm. She takes it daintily, her shoulders held high, and then nearly falls again the moment she takes a step. 

His grasp on her is firm, keeping her upright until her feet are under her again. “You can’t walk normally when it’s like this.”

“ _ You _ are.”

“Because I’ve got proper winter boots and haven’t yet had the time to make yours,” he says, putting his hands on her waist and lifting her carefully from the stairs to the ground, where at least the ice isn’t slanting downwards. “The right way to walk on this is more like marching. Keep your knees high and feet flat, no pushing off from the ground. See?”

He demonstrates, and she gingerly follows along. “I wish I’d had room in my trunk for my ice skates.”

“You’ll be alright. Just hold on to me. I won’t let you fall.”

She peeks up at him with a fond smile. “I know.”

The trip to the post office is slow with many near disasters, but he doesn’t mind, not when each stumble is accompanied with a squeal of surprise and followed by her clinging to him just a little more closely. And he keeps his promise; he never does let her fall. The world is wicked and full of sorrow, but so long as he can help it she will never come to harm.

As they make their way, she sighs with contentment, pointing at the wickedly sharp icicles dangling from the church roof. “Look at how beautiful they are! They look like diamonds.”

“They’d kill you if they dropped on you.”

“I don’t care. Look at the way the light shines through them.”

He chuckles, but now he cannot help but see them through her eyes, something to be cherished and not detested. She has a way of doing this to him, of making him see each mundane thing as a little joy until it feels all the world should be smiling along with her.

The post office is closed because of the weather, but he manages to crack through the ice sealing the dropbox closed and holds it open. For once in her life, she hesitates, holding the thin envelope with the tips of her fingers.

“I’m not sure…” 

She trails off, biting her lip. He puts his hand on her back, reassuring her as best he can without getting in the way of her thoughts.

After several long moments, she meets his gaze. “It’s to my family. Telling them about...everything. About you. But I don’t know what they’ll say.”

“Are you worried they’ll be angry?”

“Not angry, just...disappointed. That I want to stay here, that I’m not following the same path as they are.”

She flips the letter over, tracing the address she’d written so neatly, where normally her writing was all slapdash slashes and splotches. “Kristoff...what would you do?”

He considers it carefully, knowing he has never been particularly wise but that she will take his answer as gospel anyway. “I have never had a family. Only my mother. But if she were here...I think...I think I’d rather face the risk of disappointing her than not have her in my life at all.”

She deliberates for a moment, turning his words over in her mind, then nods decisively and slides the letter into the box. “Their loss, right?”

He kisses the top of her head. “Exactly.”

They have barely made it halfway back when there is an excited squeal. “Miss Anna!”

A little girl is sliding her way over to them while her mother and father try to keep up. As she draws nearer, she gasps, nearly falling onto her rear end as she claps her hands to her mouth. “And the  _ toymaker! _ ”

He kneels down, gently setting a hand on her shoulder to keep her from stumbling further. “I remember you,” she says, her eyes full of wonder. “I saw you leave our presents on Christmas Eve.”

He remembers her, too, the little girl who, with her brother, had broken the silence of Christmas morning with their shouts of joy, and he smiles.

“I remember you, too, Silje,” he says, giving her his warmest smile. “How is your owl faring in his new home?”

For a moment she is stunned, a miniature statue of ice, and then she rummages through her pocket and pulls out the tiny figure. This was one of Anna’s, really, but she winks and puts a finger over her lips. 

“Have you given it a name?” he asks the girl, and she nods excitedly.

“Frans, because he looks very wise.”

He is not sure what that has to do with her choice of name, but he nods solemnly, and she brightens at his approval. “Toymaker, will you come again? Will you bring presents for my birthday.”

“Of course, so long as you swear to me you’ll be good and kind and not pester your brother too much.”

She nods and flings her arms around his neck. “Thank you, toymaker!”

He pats her gently on the back. “And take good care of Frans.”

She slips back over to her parents, and he rises slowly, uncertain of what to expect to see in their faces. He is surprised to see that, for once, residents of Smeerensburg are looking at him with something akin to warmth in their eyes.

“You do fine work, sir toymaker,” says the girl’s father. “Perhaps you might consider making something besides toys?”

Kristoff nods, hardly daring to believe it. “Yes, a great many things.”

“We are in need of a new table. Perhaps you would be able to assist?”

They hammer out a deal; he promises to deliver within a month, and they hand over a down payment, small but still more coin than he usually has at all. Beside him, Anna waits only until their backs are turned before bouncing with glee. “Look at you!” she says, tugging at his sleeve until he leans down and lets her kiss his cheek. 

He blushes under the praise. “It’s nothing. Just business.”

“Oh, it’s not just that, it’s how you are with Silje, with all the children. When I see you being so gentle with them, I can hardly wait to marry you.” Her eyes light up. “Why not do it now? We can find the witnesses easily and go right to the priest and have it done.”

He grasps her hand tightly, overwhelmed by her naked enthusiasm. “So this-- it’s not a dream? You truly do love me?”

“Since the moment you tied on my mittens for me,” she says shyly. “And you?”

“Since the moment you looked at me and were not afraid.”

She laughs at that. “How could anyone ever be afraid of you?”

And this is why he loves her: she sees the beauty in the unwanted things, finds the light that shines through the ice that drags from the trees and the man who lived alone in the woods and had been forgotten by even himself.

“When the snow starts to melt,” he promises her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “And the first crocuses bloom.”

“Why? That’s  _ ages _ away.”

“Because I want you to have flowers at your wedding.”

She pretends to scoff at that, but he sees the tenderness in her eyes. “Silly, sentimental fool.”

“Perhaps,” he admits, now kissing her cheek. “But it also gives me time to build you a nicer chair, and a desk, and a bed big enough for two.”

This time she is the one leading the kiss, and it feels like flying.

* * *

He delivers the table within only three weeks rather than the agreed upon four and is

rewarded for his efficiency and craftsmanship with a homemade lunch and a promise of future work and recommendations to the rest of the townsfolk. 

Silje’s mother pats his hand across the table. “It’s a shame,” she says, looking regretful, “that you have not been made welcome in the village. But from now on, I swear you’re always welcome here. For what you’ve done not just for our family, but for all of the children.”

“It was Anna, mostly, really,” he says hastily, and the woman smiles.

“Both of you, then. I mean it.”

His mind is still reeling as he leaves the little house, trying to make sense of how much his world has changed in so few months. He wishes his mother was here to see him and how he and the town alike have softened, wishes getting in touch with her was as easy as sending a letter.

He looks up and finds that without quite meaning to he has wandered towards the place on the outskirts of town where the Sámi stay; somehow his feet have followed his heart. He smiles fondly and is turning to go when he feels a tug at the hem of his tunic.

“Dahkki!”  _ Maker _ .

It’s little Márgu, clapping her hands with glee.  _ You came like you promised! Why did you not say hello before when you came with the toys? _

_ The night was long, and I had many places to visit, _ he says apologetically.  _ I hope you liked them. _

_ They were wonderful! But now you must come and say hello. _

She reaches up and grasps his work-hardened fingers with her own tiny hand and tugs him towards the ring of  _ goahti _ , surprisingly strong for being such a little creature.  _ You must meet my father! He says your carvings are the finest he has ever seen. Look-- there he is! _

She points at a man building up the fire, wearing clothing woven in the same pattern as her own.  _ Pappa! Look, it is the toymaker! _

Kristoff takes a step forward, and the man stands, and then they both freeze at the same time, staring at what could be called, if not quite a reflection, an imitation, a tracing of familiar lines.

“You have my sister’s eyes,” the man says, his voice hoarse.

_ And you have my mother’s _ , Kristoff replies in the tongue he learned from her, and little Márgu squeals for joy.

_ See, Pappa? I told you the toymaker is one of us! _

The man kneels down and scoops her up, holding her in one arm as he reaches out to clap Kristoff on the shoulder with the other. He returns the gesture.

_ Yes, my Mári, _ he says with a proud smile,  _ he is _ .

* * *

One morning when he steps outside, stretching, the breeze is warm over his face, and the snow is receding, and there, just at the edge of it, a set of new green leaves is poking out through the mud, and so he is not surprised when Anna is there hours earlier than usual, jumping into his arms the moment she lays eyes on him.

“They’re here!” she exclaims as he laughs and lifts her off her feet, twirling her around. “I saw them, the first flowers!”

“So did I,” he says, lowering her back to the ground so he can kiss her. “And in six days they’ll bloom, so in seven days I’ll marry you.”

“Why that long?”

“Every bride should have some sort of crown, and you’ll be needing time to make it.”

“Will you help?”

“Of course.”

And he does; his prediction was correct, and in six days he is in her little sitting room, teaching her to braid the stems without breaking them, the way his mother had taught him when he was a little boy too easily frustrated with delicate things.

“Be gentle with the world,” she had explained, stilling his rough hands, “and it will be gentle back.”

For years after losing her, he hadn’t believed her, had instead closed out the world and all its wonders, but now he has come to realize that perhaps in this as in most things she has turned out to be right.

Just as they finish knotting the circlet, a timid knock comes at the door. Frowning, she goes to answer it. “I wasn’t expecting--”

She lets out a little gasp, and immediately he is on his feet, coming to her side. A man is waiting there with a neatly waxed moustache; next to him is a girl with pale hair and eyes a shockingly familiar shade of blue.

“Papa…Elsa…” Anna says, like she can’t quite believe they’re there.

For a long, tense moment, all three are silent; then the other girl-- Elsa-- clears her throat.

“Perhaps it has been too long,” she says, her voice not warm but still not unkind, “but we could hardly miss your wedding.”

They all three look at him then, and he tries not to tremble under the weight of their gaze. They are people from the city, and richer than most; even if Anna had not told him of her family’s background, he would have known it by the way they carry themselves, by the tailored fit of their expensive clothes, by the look of bemusement in their eyes.

“Are you sure,” her father asks, his eyes darting nervously to Kristoff’s towering frame, “you will be happy here, living like this, never wanting anything more?”

Fear roils through his chest; it is the question he himself has not dared to even think of outside of the depths of night, but Anna only laughs.

“More than a husband who treasures me, pupils who are eager to learn, and a home that is full of warmth and surrounded by beauty? Papa, what more  _ is _ there?”

The man’s eyes are full of tears. “Oh, my Anna…”

He holds open his arms, and she embraces him, her own eyes overflowing. “I’m so  _ happy _ ,” she says, and Kristoff did not think he could love her any more than he already does but  _ oh _ , that little tremor in her voice and the light in her smile-- and he wonders how he lived so many years alone in silence, but he is grateful, all the same, knowing that they led him here, to this moment, to her.

When they break away, her father holds out a hand to him. “If you make my Anniken this happy,” he says, warmth in his eyes, “then by all means, welcome to our family.”

The same welcome is in his eyes when he leads Anna down the aisle in the tiny

clapboard church, but Kristoff can only glimpse it for a moment before his eyes fill with tears. She has always been beautiful to him, but today she is radiant, lit from within with something even brighter than starlight, more glorious than the colors that paint the northern skies. Her dress is simple, without ornamentation, but with the crown of vibrantly purple crocuses woven into the copper fire of her hair, she looks like a goddess come to earth, so incandescent he hardly believes it when he takes her hand and finds it just as solid as his own.

He’s too enraptured by her to look away even when the priest asks him if he will take her, love and honor her, as long as they’ll live, and he can hardly wait to say  _ yes _ .

* * *

His mornings now begin not with a sigh but a smile; every day he wakes to find Anna tangled around him in some new improbable way, always trying to get as close to him as she can. He is no better; he keeps her always pressed to his chest or nestled in his arms, cherishing her even in sleep.

They would spend the whole day in bed if they could-- and they certainly have more than

once-- but now that it is summer and the children are free to come and go as they please, uninhibited by icy roads or the terrors of homework, more often than not by midmorning their yard is full of Anna’s students running and playing and begging for piggyback rides and fairy tales.

They are happy to indulge them, to spend long days teaching chubby fingers to braid hair or lanky limbs to tumble through cartwheels; even Sven and the other reindeer have grown fond of the constant crop of little visitors all eager to offer up carrots and scratches behind the ears. There is no longer any silence surrounding this cabin, and some days his heart is so full he wonders if it might just burst.

He’s sitting on the stoop, watching little Silje and Márgu play clapping games, teaching each other different ones in their native tongues. Anna settles beside him, spreading her skirt over her knees. It’s a new dress, one that he was proud to buy for her; they both know how to sew well enough, but he had just sold another dining room table and received a large enough bag of coin that they had both decided to be a little frivolous, just this once, and the way the green of the fabric brought out the fire in her hair-- well. It hardly feels frivolous to him now at all.

Her eyes are so soft as she watches the children run and play in the yard, laughing and tumbling and whooping for joy. He cannot help it; he reaches over, laces his fingers with hers and holds on tight. “We’ll have to start working on their Christmas presents before much longer, won’t we?”

“Oh, yes,” she replies, running her thumb over his. “But would you build something else for me first?”

“What would you ask of me, my love?”

She grins, and before she even answers his heart begins to pound. 

“A cradle.”

* * *

He built her the cradle as she had wished, puts more care into it than anything else he has ever shaped with his own two hands, leaving a blank space at the head to carve a name. “It’s  _ perfect _ ,” she had said, tears already welling up in her eyes, and he had never felt more proud than when he said “There’s more.”

She’d clapped her hands over her mouth when he hauled it in from outdoors. The moment he set it down, she darted over to examine it, running her fingers over each and every detail in the wood. “How did you hide this from me?” she asked, the tears now running freely down her cheeks. “A  _ rocking chair _ , Kristoff-- it’s-- it’s  _ beautiful _ .”

He’d been laboring over it for weeks when she was at school, keeping all the pieces tucked away in a back corner of the stables. He put just as much care into it as the cradle, covering each square inch with beautiful carvings; rabbits frolic up and down the arms, crocuses twine around the top, and on the legs are rows of tiny snowflakes.

She had thrown her arms around him, covering his face in soggy kisses. “Kristoff-- you wonderful-- I love you-- I can’t  _ believe _ it-- best Christmas--”

He'd cupped her face in his hands, stilling her so that he could lean down and kiss her warmly. She sighed against him, pressing as close as she can-- which wasn’t particularly close any more.

She’s sitting in the chair now, just barely rocking and contentedly watching him as she runs a hand over the newly generous swell of her stomach. She insists she will come with him tonight, but he can be just as stubborn and has told her that if she wishes to come, she must let him do the preparations, at least, on his own. Perhaps she would have argued more if she wasn’t so excited to test the chair. “They’ll like it, too,” she had promised, and she had glowed so much saying it that he had to lean down and kiss her again.

At last the sleigh is readied, and he helps her pull on her coat. It won’t quite button around her any more, and so when he helps her up into her seat he tucks her in with an extra layer of blankets. “Now I feel like I’m the baby getting swaddled,” she giggles, and he kisses her temple before setting off through the trees.

This year, he already knows each child, each home, and has been spending the last several months learning new techniques, new ways to make the toys come alive; now the birds have wings that flap, the frogs have legs that jump, the dogs have tails that wag, all thanks to tiny little cranks in their bellies. He gave little Márgu hers early: a rabbit again, but this time one that will hop all around her.  _ Thank you, toymaker _ , she had said, throwing her arms around him.  _ Come in for dinner. _

And he had, bringing Anna alongside him, both halves of his newfound family together with him, all laughing in the light of the fire. He cannot help but smile as he drives the sleigh past and sees the smoke rising above the  _ goahti _ ; this time they will know who brought their presents, and it brings him joy.

The children have been told in no uncertain terms that if they try to stay awake all night in hopes of catching a glimpse of their beloved toymaker then no toys will appear at all, but still a few intrepid pairs of eyes peer out at them from behind curtains. He fixes them with stern looks, and they disappear, sometimes with a squeal so loud he hears it through the closed window. 

The sun is about to rise when at least they finish and turn towards home. Anna leans against his shoulder, clasping his hand in both of her own. “Have you ever been happier?”

He kisses the top of her head. “Never. And I’m sure tomorrow I’ll say the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed the fluff fest :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise smut week followup from Anna's POV :) hope you enjoy

“Do you know what the children say about you?” she asks, her lips pressed to the soft spot behind his ear.

“Hmm?” is all he replies, more interested in watching the branches sway above them in the early autumn breeze and the way she is tracing lines up and down and across his chest as she lays tucked beside him on the blanket spread over the grass.

“They think you’re magic,” she whispers, relishing the goosebumps that prickle his skin when her breath washes over it.

He turns to look at her then, amusement warming his expression, and she falls in love with him all over again for at least the sixth time that day. She has held his heart for two years now, and yet it seems she will never grow tired of watching his eyes soften when they settle on her. “But they have seen me. They know I’m only a man.”

“No,” she corrects him, and before she goes on she cannot help but lean in to kiss him. “You’re the Toymaker. “

He chuckles at that and kisses her again, his lips unhurried and warm as the arm he has under her shoulders curls up, pulling her closer to him. She never grows tired of it, of the way he touches her like she came to him as an answer to a prayer he carried within him all his life and he intends to spend the rest of his life thanking her for it. “And who is the Toymaker?”

She sits up, and for a moment he looks disappointed, but then she moves to sit astride his lap, her skirt hiking up around her thighs, and he grins and rises to meet her, encircling her with his arms. She brushes her nose against his, just barely, relishing his sharp intake of breath. 

It is these small things, these signs of affection granted so easily, warm and generous as the sun that shines on them now, that still seem to shock him more than the way she touches him at night, all grasping fingers and swollen lips and muffled cries buried in his shoulder.

But for once they are entirely alone, their yard devoid of little visitors and their son inside, asleep in his cradle just past the half-open door, and she intends to touch him in both ways if he will have her. And he is still waiting for an answer, and so she laces her fingers behind his neck and meets his gaze with a slowly unfurling smile. "They say the Toymaker knows all men's hearts, and whether they are good or not."

"I only know my own," he says, "and that it is safe in your hands."

She wants to melt against him at that, but then this will be over too soon. "And that he can make the most marvelous things that move of their own accord."

He huffs out a laugh, his hands sliding down to settle over her hips. "It is easy once you know the trick of it."

"And they think you must be able to fly in order to visit every child in the town all in one night."

"Now that part  _ is _ magic," he says, smiling in a way that sends a flush all the way down to her shoulders. "I can find no other explanation for my luck in finding such a wife as you who would stay with me through the night and show me the way to go."

She gives in then, leans down and kisses him as passionately as she did the very first time, though they are both far more practiced at it now. Once he had doubted her, had turned her away thinking she could somehow learn to love another, but now he knows that this is where she belongs, tangled with him here in the little glade that has felt like home to her since the first moment she met his eyes and saw her own soul looking back at her.

His hands slip under the fabric of her dress, seeking, and she rocks against him, tugging a moan from him that he quickly stifles in the bared skin of her neck, his stubble scraping over her collarbone as he tastes her, his tongue darting over her pale skin. "Kristoff," she breathes, his arms tightening around her at the sound of his name on her tongue.

He had told her once that he had nearly forgotten his name before he had met her, had lived so long so alone that there had been no one around to remind him of it. Now she says it as often as she can, and it pleases her to see the visible effect it has on him every time. "My Kristoff," she says again, and his grip tightens around her thighs, his calloused thumbs stroking in maddeningly slow arcs against the soft skin there.

She slides a hand into his hair and tugs gently until his head falls back and she can look into his eyes, pupils blown wide with need. It thrills her to see him this way, to know he is entirely at her mercy. On the day she first realized she was entirely his, she had watched as the hands she loves so dearly dragged a fallen tree two miles through the snow as if it weighed no more than the rope he had tied around it, and then as he had slipped his gloves from her hands as gently as if she were made of porcelain and not flesh and blood that hungered for him even then. In this moment, she sees in him again the raw power that coils in the breadth of his shoulders and is tempered by the greater strength of his heart.

This time when she kisses him, she is gentle, and he matches her, all sweet, earnest tenderness as she strokes her fingers through his hair. It is always like this with him; he can deny her nothing, even when he himself is racked with wanting-- but what he is still learning is that she cherishes him in just the same way, longs to give him everything she can and more, and so she pulls back from him, a question in her eyes that he has long since learned to recognize, and he nods and lowers her down gently, one palm still on her thigh pushing her skirt out of the way.

Her hands slide up and across his chest, feeling the way his heart thrums there in time with her own. He smiles and leans down, resting his forehead against hers, and she closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of pinesmoke that always lingers on his skin.

“My Anna,” he murmurs, “do you remember once that you told me once that I was full of surprises?”

“Mhmm.”

“I think,” he says, punctuating each word with a soft kiss to all the corners and curves of her face, “that you have been my favorite one.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
